


Metamorphosis

by katineto (mistalagan)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Body Image, Intersex, M/M, Mpreg, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Other, Pregnancy, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-02-13 20:16:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12991719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistalagan/pseuds/katineto
Summary: When Yuuri and Viktor decide to have a child, a lot of things change—not least of all themselves.





	1. Planning

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! I swear I'm working on my other fics too but I just couldn't resist…
> 
> This fic is a variation on A/B/O dynamics. It's inspired by the (relatively rare?) kink I've seen a couple times where an alpha is 'turned' into an omega. Well, instead of doing that, I just made everyone a beta. The catch? Reproductive couples can choose to undergo a (temporary) biological change into 'alpha' (the impregnating partner) and 'omega' (the impregnated partner). Essentially, everyone has both parts, but they're dormant until the right hormones are produced.
> 
> (Some animals do this! Mostly fish though.)
> 
> Note that Yuuri does experience some discomfort with the change he is undergoing, and therefore his body.

“Are you sure?” Viktor asks, at the very last minute, after all the discussion and planning and negotiation is over and all that’s left is the doing of it. His pale hands hover over Yuuri’s slim, beta-trim waist, displaying a rare hesitancy to touch.

Five years ago, Yuuri might have interpreted this as Viktor being unsure, not ready to make such a commitment. Viktor’s sire abandoned his dam when he was young, and so Viktor is of the hard-headed, unyielding opinion that no matter _what_ he’ll never leave a child—or lover—of his adrift in such a way. Five years ago, Yuuri might have swallowed back tears and said, no, let’s think about this some more, because what if he’s not really the one Viktor should be hanging onto so tenaciously.

Now, Yuuri knows full well that the questioning, wavering timbre of Viktor’s voice is out of fear of his own inadequacies, and that _Are you sure?_ means _Are we ready?_ and _Will you be okay?_ and _Am I doing this wrong?_

So, in response, he merely tilts his head back and to the side, and bares the crook of his neck to Viktor’s earnest gaze.

\--

His scent begins to change almost immediately. Yuuri doesn’t really notice until Viktor’s sympathetic change starts, a day or two later, and Yurio crinkles up his nose and mutters something about them stinking up the whole building. Kenjirou, on the other hand, leans against the rink wall with a sappy smile and coos about how cute they are, and Yuuko winks at them when they leave Ice Castle for the day. “Don’t forget to feed him!” she calls out to Viktor, who responds with a wink of his own.

Sure enough, as one week rolls into the next Yuuri’s appetite spikes. Years of paying careful attention to his diet mean he automatically counts the calories that Viktor lovingly lays out before him. Despite _knowing_ that he needs to gain weight during this phase of the change—“I’d expect between three and five kilos,” the doctor had said—intentionally doing so feels subtly wrong. 

Somehow it doesn’t help that, as always, he has no problem gaining ( _fattening up,_ that little voice mutters in the back of his head as he stares at the mirror). He prods at the slight softness in his chest that will soon grow and round out; he watches the weight he gains gather in his thighs; he notices his face softening at the edges. His hips are already starting to widen. In the morning and late at night, his bones ache as the ligaments and cartilage shift to accommodate his new form. His shoulder throbs intermittently, the swollen gland beneath the skin pumping hormones into his blood.

Viktor is changing, too, but more subtly. Going from beta to alpha is mostly a matter of increased testosterone and muscle mass. His bone structure doesn’t have to adjust itself in anticipation of carrying a baby around. He’s perhaps more doting than usual, a little more overprotective, but even that feels like a natural extension of Viktor’s normal behavior, as if he was always intended to be an alpha.

Yuuri, though, Yuuri breaks down for no reason when they go over to the onsen for a family dinner one night. His mother places his bowl in front of him and he stares at it and the tears well up, and he excuses himself, stammering, and knocks Viktor’s reaching hand away, and closes his eyes to the shocked and hurt look on Viktor’s face, and flees to the bathroom where he sobs openly.

It’s only a few minutes before the door creaks open. Yuuri, sitting miserably on the floor, hunches his shoulders and looks down. “I-I’m s-sorry,” he sniffles, “It’s just, just the hormones, I’m sorry…”

Toshiya slowly eases himself down to sit next to his son, just close enough for their shoulders to touch, and waits for Yuuri to stop crying.

“Sorry,” Yuuri croaks out again, when the tears have dried up.

“Your mother,” Toshiya says, slowly, “found the change very easy. It was natural for her.” He looks at Yuuri with an uncharacteristically solemn expression. “It is not so natural for everyone.”

Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut. “It’s supposed to be.”

“Hmm,” Toshiya hums. “It was not, for instance, so natural for me.” He quirks his lips up into half a smile. “They say children take more after their dam, but you inherit some things from your poor old sire, yes?”

Deep breaths. “But I want this,” Yuuri whispers, finally. “So badly. I do. It just—it feels…“

“Like your body isn’t yours anymore?”

“No—I—I don’t know. Like I have to become someone completely different. I _want_ it,” he repeats.

 “After your sister,” Toshiya says, “I said, no more. Not for me. And when your mother wanted another, there was no question, then, who would carry. But that does not mean I did not want you, and it does not mean I did not want Mari.” He reaches out, smooths his rough fingers over Yuuri’s back. “People like to say that it is a magical thing, and it is wonderful and beautiful and miraculous. But the truth is, often it hurts, and you feel sick and miserable and wonder what is wrong with you that you should feel this way. The truth is that it is beautiful, but it is also difficult. Much like other things you do, I think.”

Yuuri hugs his knees closer and sniffles as his sire continues. “Don’t let them tell you it should be easy. Love rarely is. But if it is something you want, it will be worth it.” He frowns. “And if it isn’t something you want, there is no shame in stopping now. But I think you know yourself.”

“Thanks, dad,” Yuuri whispers, and scrubs the remnants of moisture from his face. “We should go back to dinner.” He hoists himself up and holds out his hand to his father, who takes it with a grimace and rises somewhat more slowly.

“Ah, these old bones aren’t what they used to be! Enjoy your youth, Yuuri.”

He apologizes to a concerned Viktor with a light kiss, but it doesn’t stop him from fretting over Yuuri for the rest of the evening. The guilt of ruining a nice family dinner doesn’t really go away, though no one makes a comment.

After his shower that night, Yuuri stares at himself in the mirror, tracing invisible lines over his flat belly. Viktor comes up behind him and rests his chin on Yuuri’s head, though he’s not tall enough to do so without stepping up on his tiptoes. His arms drape loosely around Yuuri’s chest and his hands catch Yuuri’s and hold them fast.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs.

Yuuri snorts. “You’d say I was beautiful if I was green-skinned and warty and could only grow nose hairs and eat nothing but garlic.”

“Hmm.” Viktor grins into his hair. “Yes, I can see the appeal of baba-Yuuri. Riding along in his chicken-leg hut, kidnapping helpless skating coaches for his personal harem…”

Yuuri is helpless to stop the grin from forming even as he smacks Viktor’s hands away. “Just the one skating coach, Vitya,” he says through giggles as Viktor moves to tickle his sides. “Only ever the one.”

\--

One morning, Yuuri wakes early, with a strange sense that something is different and the unerring certainty of what it is. He clenches a fist against the sheets, biting his lip before inching towards Viktor’s still-sleeping face.

It doesn’t take more than a brush of Yuuri’s hand along Viktor’s cheek before he, too, is awake. “G’morning,” he murmurs, with a soft smile, and Yuuri smiles back before taking Viktor’s hand in his and guiding it down.

Yuuri savors the image of Viktor’s eyes widening in pleased surprise. “Oh,” he says, “ _oh_. Is it—can I—”

“That’s what it’s for,” Yuuri says.

“So _sassy_ ,” Viktor complains, but he’s clearly distracted. His warm, thin fingers tentatively curl up behind Yuuri’s testes, exploring the slick wetness there. The wonders of the human body—a few short weeks ago, it was closed up tightly, unyielding. Now, Yuuri opens easily at his lover’s touch. He gasps into Viktor’s nape as a finger slips inside him, moans as Viktor reverently strokes him from the inside out.

“ _Vitya_ ,” he mewls as he rides his husband’s—no, his _alpha_ _’_ _s_ —hand to completion. “ _Oh_ , Vityenka.”

Viktor chuckles, warm and breathy. “Beautiful, my Yuuri.” 

“ _More_ ,” Yuuri demands, clutching at Viktor’s shoulders.

They don’t make it out of bed for a long time.


	2. Cravings/Libido

They’re out shopping when Viktor stops short in front of a display of fluffy blankets. He can’t stop himself from touching them. They’re soft and light and covered in coffee-brown puppies leaping and frolicking over their light blue folds, and therefore they are perfect.

He tries a few just to see which is the fluffiest, then bounds back to Yuuri carrying his prize. 

Yuuri takes one look at what he’s holding and blows out an exasperated breath. “Vitya,” he says, a little impatiently, “You’ve bought three blankets in the past week.”

This is true. Also true, however, is that it will be winter soon, and their apartment is wonderful but also sometimes drafty, and Yuuri gets cold. And Viktor’s not convinced that their bed is comfortable enough, either. And what if something happens to one of the blankets? It never hurts to have a spare. Also, as he demonstrates by making Yuuri touch one of the fluffy blanket-puppies, this particular one is perfect.

“That’s what you said about the other ones, too,” Yuuri sighs.

“This one’s more perfect,” Viktor reasons, reasonably, and turns his saddest expression on. 

“ _Fine_ ,” Yuuri concedes, “But this is the last one." 

When they get home Viktor immediately goes to add the blanket to the steadily growing pile on their bed. This one gets tucked around the bottom, to cover their feet if they get cold. He steps back and takes a look; then, he reconsiders, and tears all the bedding off to reconstruct the whole thing so it’s better.

Yuuri walks in the room halfway through and watches. Viktor gives the pillows an extra plumping.

“Vitya,” Yuuri says, when he’s done, “You can nest with the things we already own, you know. If you get too much more on there we won’t be able to fit.”

“You’re right,” Viktor muses. “We could get a bigger bed.”

“ _No_ , Vitya.”

Viktor sighs, but he wasn’t really serious about that, anyway. He just wants to make sure Yuuri’s comfortable. And safe. Another alpha was looking at Yuuri for a little too long in the grocery store the other day and Viktor had found himself growling, which in retrospect was more than a little embarrassing. In Viktor’s defense, Yuuri is gorgeous and in heat and if Viktor were not already Yuuri’s alpha he would want to be very badly. (The other alpha had also growled. Their respective omegas had laughed at them—“I didn’t know you were going to be such a stereotype, Vitya,” Yuuri had teased.)

Some people would say Viktor has no impulse control, but really it’s just that he used too much of it up over years of defining himself and denying himself for the sake of the ice, and they have plenty of money so there’s no point in depriving Yuuri of fluffy blankets. Especially because he _knows_ Yuuri likes to cuddle up with as many of them as he can until just his nose is poking out, which is the height of cuteness.

Moreover, he knows Yuuri has been pensive and worried lately. Sometimes, coaxing whatever self-loathing Yuuri is busy internalizing out into harmlessness involves Viktor being just a little more ridiculous than usual.

“No new bed, then,” he says. “Hmm, but maybe we should make sure the old one is still comfortable before we decide?”

“It’s the middle of the day,” Yuuri says, but his expression is anything but resisting.

\--

To put it bluntly, Viktor and Yuuri have had a lot of sex. Slow and careful, fast and desperate; one or the other or both taking the lead; in their own bed and hotel rooms and once very memorably on a secluded beach (Viktor does not recommend the latter). Barring an excessive amount of equipment and prep time, there is not a lot they haven’t managed in their five _very happy_ years of marriage.

Still, since the whole point of this exercise is to get Yuuri pregnant, Viktor is quite determined to try as often as possible. Having an entirely new set of parts to play with—on the one hand, Yuuri’s very pretty vagina, and on the other, Viktor’s enlarged and sensitive knot—makes it all the more fun. Yuuri, for his part, is pretty much always ready to go.

Removing clothes is an art form erotic in both the endurance and sprint events. Though Viktor has many a time watched with delight as Yuuri slowly strips off his garments, now is not that time, and the sheer speed at which his shirt, belt, pants, socks, and underwear disappear is by any objective metric astounding. It’s matched, perhaps, only by the speed at which Viktor finds himself on his back, Yuuri’s delightfully rounded thighs straddling him, Yuuri’s tight, hot body sinking down onto his cock.

“ _God_ , yes,” he groans, reaching out to grasp at Yuuri’s hips. “Fuck, Yuuri, just like that.” Viktor loves this position because he gets to watch—Yuuri’s strong legs flexing, sweat beading down his bare chest, the way his lips move with the little breathy moans he makes. He digs his fingers into the yielding flesh of Yuuri’s plump buttocks, possessively. “There you go, beautiful, come on, fuck me,” he says, “I don’t know how I got so lucky, you’re so perfect, so gorgeous, my beautiful Yuuri, you fit me perfectly, like you’re made for my cock. _Ahh_ , fuck, yes,” as Yuuri rides him with increased vigor, clenching warm and delicious around him. Yuuri doesn’t talk but he makes such wonderful noises, ones that rise in pitch and volume as he gets closer, and he doesn’t stop until he’s coming in pulsating waves that coax Viktor over the edge with him.

Viktor pulls him all the way down onto his fattening knot. He doesn’t resist; he goes gladly, ending up seated fully on Viktor’s lap, leaning down with hands braced on either side of Viktor’s head. Their foreheads touch as they settle into the extended bliss of the tie, breaths evening out together, heartbeats matching.

“Do you remember Eros?” Yuuri says, out of the blue, as Viktor’s knot is beginning to die down.

Viktor blinks. Does he remember Eros. _How could he forget?_  

“I think you found yours,” he offers, and Yuuri snorts.

“I’d _hope_ so,” he says. “Do you remember the first time you performed it for me?” 

Yes, of course. He’d been wavering between potential heartbreak and potential hope, afraid that his headlong rush into the new world of Hasetsu and love and an oblivious, shy, alluring boy who made music with his body would turn out to be an abysmal failure. He nods.

“I thought then,” Yuuri says, and shifts just a little but enough to send sparks of pleasure down Viktor’s spine, “That your performance alone was so erotic it was enough to make me—even as a beta—pregnant.” He smirks, in a perfect mirror of his own Eros performance, and leans down to purr into Viktor’s ear. “So I think, since I’m not pregnant yet, maybe you’re just not trying hard enough?” 

Becoming an alpha has done wonders for Viktor’s refractory period, he notes, as he flips their positions and drives hard into _his_ omega’s welcoming body.


	3. Maternity Clothes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's super short

It’s a pleasant night, after the onsen kitchen has closed for the evening: a bit warmer than usual for this time of year. The skies are clear and the stars are out, and Yuuri and Mari are sitting on the porch and complaining.

This is the kind of relationship they have had starting from when they were young: Mari will bemoan the cancellation of her favorite band’s concert in Fukuoka, and Yuuri will gripe about how the corner store is always out of his favorite brand of sports drink. Mari will mutter about how people don’t ever seem to be able to put their towels in the hamper, and Yuuri will tell her wincingly about the grinding noise of a child’s bare skate blades on concrete. When Mari whines about how the onsen is getting too crowded and she never has a moment to rest, Yuuri is not allowed to point out that a few years ago she was complaining about the opposite. When Yuuri speaks of how frustrating a battle it is to get Yurio to take a break and not overdo things, Mari is not allowed to remind Yuuri that he was always far worse.

Even when Yuuri was in Detroit, they complained to each other, not in person or over the phone but in short, unexplained messages sent over text or SNS. Some weeks, that was his only real contact with his family, a volley of _the hockey players are taking over the rink again; old Mr. Otsuka won_ _’_ _t watch anything but baseball; Americans are weird_ back and forth at odd hours of the day. Sometimes the complaints are utterly trivial. Sometimes they are not.

This past month, Yuuri’s had plenty to complain about. It’s been a few weeks since his heat subsided. This was a thrilling occurrence at first, once they got confirmation from the drugstore test that they’d actually succeeded, but Yuuri’s sheer joy was soon overtaken by sheer exhaustion. He’d go through his usual routine and feel absolutely wiped out; already not much of a morning person, he was doubly cranky with a greatly reduced allowance of caffeine and a seemingly constant, bone-numbing fatigue. On top of it all, a fretting and guilt-ridden Viktor is gone with Yurio to Skate Canada, leaving Yuuri to handle Kenjirou’s training and the sudden emptiness of their apartment alone.

A couple days ago, he’d finally mustered the energy to go out for a morning jog, and now _everything hurts_. Oh, his legs are just fine, but his chest and neck and back are sore and aching, and he has no husband around to massage the pain away.

Plus, utterly contrary to their unspoken rules about complaining, Mari is laughing at him. He pouts.

“You need to buy a _bra_ , Yuuri,” she finally says, sipping at her beer (another thing which Yuuri is not allowed to have). “Nobody with boobs goes out running without a bra.” She pokes at his chest in the friendly, annoying way only an older sibling can.

He flushes bright red and stares downwards. They don’t really look that big. He’d sort of hoped he’d be able to get away without one.

“Come on. What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Coaching,” he mutters.

“What, all day?”

Only in the morning—Kenjirou has off-ice work and dance practice later in the day. “No,” he admits.

“OK, we’re going shopping.” 

Sometimes it’s best not to argue with his sister, Yuuri has found.

\-- 

When Viktor shops, he’s like a large, enthusiastic butterfly, flitting between this and that, throwing clothes with obscene price tags at Yuuri until he tries them on, discarding them for something else that catches his eye. Mari is nothing like that. Mari is scarily efficient: she has made a short list of all the lingerie and maternity wear places, and they march briskly to the first, where she takes one look at the displays and drags him abruptly to the next. 

When Yuuri shops, he likes to find the first thing that fits okay, isn’t a weird color, and doesn’t cost too much, and then buy it and go home. This admittedly fits better with Mari’s style than Viktor’s, but is apparently still too lax.

“You need something with more support,” she lectures, directing him to twirl around and stand up straight (much as he’d like to hunch over and avoid showing off his shiny new breasts to his _sister_ ). “You want to go running, don’t you? They’re only going to get bigger.”

Thankfully, she doesn’t direct him to anything _sexy_ , or he’s pretty sure he’d burst with embarrassment. No, the ones she picks out for him are practical and soft and adjustable for when he grows; they’re in grey and black and tan. He does, however, note _where_ the sexy ones are. Just in case he wants to come back later. 

They make it back within plenty of time, Yuuri now the proud owner of an entirely new type of undergarment. “Thanks,” he says, struck suddenly by a surge of affection.

“Any time,” she responds, and promptly wrestles him into a headlock. _Gently_. He is pregnant, after all.


	4. Free

When Viktor is seventeen, he’s newly, mind-bogglingly famous, without any of the defenses he’ll acquire against that state later on in life. High on the adoration of his fans and naïve to the realities of having them, he gives his number to a friendly weekend hookup, a first-year student of philosophy at St. Petersburg State University. Viktor’s hoping they’ll meet up again and reprise that one lazy rest day, filled with musings about the nature of reality interrupted by casual, tussling bouts of sex and a loose interpretation of his diet. Stepan seems so smart when he expounds upon the follies of mankind, and Viktor, for a brief moment, thinks he might be in love with the way his grin turns sharp upon talking Viktor through a twisty paradox, the way his dark eyes pull Viktor in.

Stepan’s hoping for a quick payout and some notoriety around campus. He sells Viktor’s phone number to a trashy website and brags about bedding him to his friends. 

Viktor spends a week heartbroken. Then, like something sharp emerging from a cocoon, he gets over it. He thanks his lucky stars no pictures were taken and he changes his number. He’ll never give it out so casually again, until some ten years later when he scribbles it down on the arm of a drunken mess of a man who promptly disappears into the night.

It takes a while to salvage the contents of his phone, sifting through the mass of texts and phone calls that were his first clue something had gone wrong. Some of them are fairly normal, given that whoever it was had the guts to try and contact him—things like “I’m such a big fan!” and “OMG is it really you?!” Others are…not. They make him feel oily and tense in a way that only releases when he’s on the ice.

One, though, stands out. There’s a text and a voicemail. The first only says, “If this is you, I’m sorry. Maria won’t talk to me and she’s right not to, but I want to meet you again just once.”

The second is in a voice half-remembered from early childhood, a woman who’d disappeared from his life one day, left his dam a sobbing wreck, and never come back.

He leaves it alone for months and then deigns to meet his sire in a little café in Moscow when he’s there for the weekend.

She’s more beautiful than he remembers, the woman who gave him his long silver hair and regal bone structure. She’s wearing the sort of clothes that are nice but not expensive, and her hair is pulled back into a ragged ponytail. She looks tired. She calls him Vityenka and he doesn’t correct her.

She tells him how proud she is. She tells him about the first time she took him to an ice rink. He doesn’t remember it—he doesn’t remember not being able to balance on two skates—and he doesn’t remember how cute he used to be in little toddler outfits and oversized scarves, either. She’s not unpleasant. He just—doesn’t remember anything but a slight whiff of her perfume, and the shape of her face, and the way his dam cried and cried and then one day stopped crying altogether.

When their coffees are almost done, and bits of pastry sufficiently picked at, she looks at her bitten-up artist’s hands and falls silent. It’s an awkward minute or two before she speaks again.

“I am sorry, Vityenka. I just—I couldn’t do it anymore. It was too much. Maria—she was—she was too much. I loved her,” she says earnestly, “I did. But it was stifling. I needed to be free.” Her eyes meet Viktor’s. “You’ll understand, won’t you? You’re more like me than her, you know. There’s a hunger there she just doesn’t have.”

Viktor smiles through his closed lips and doesn’t answer. They don’t meet up again.

\-- 

Yuri does not take gold at Skate Canada, and halfway through his free skate he knows it. Some sixteen-year-old upstart from France beats _both_ his scores and stands above him, and Yuri—on the one hand, past the ravages of teenage growth spurts, and on the other hand, admittedly somewhat adrift without Katsudon in competition with him—grits his teeth and bears it. Silver here and a podium finish in Japan will net him a spot at the final, and that’s all that really matters (though the prize money never, ever hurts).

He does not voice his fear that, unlike his two coaches, his career will be short and front-loaded and he will never reach the heights he was once at again.

Halfway through his free skate, he catches a glimpse of Viktor, staring vacantly down at the ice instead of watching him. Something bitter and juvenile rises through his gullet, and the rest of the skate is _technically_ proficient but sharp and jagged and rough. He comes off the ice angry, leaves the kiss and cry angry, and takes it out on a still distracted Viktor by shoving stony silence in his face.

The worst part is that Viktor doesn’t even notice anything is wrong until after the medal ceremony. He makes vague allusions to fixing one or two things, repeats rankings that Yuri already knows, and when he receives no response finally looks up with a frown. “Yurio?”

Yuri shoves his hands in his pockets. He knows it’s childish, even selfish, to sulk like this. He doesn’t care. All he wants is three days where Viktor does his damn job and coaches Yuri like he’s supposed to.

“Yurio, is everything alright?”

“Don’t call me Yurio,” he snaps, and enjoys the taken aback look on Viktor’s face as he brushes by on the way to his own hotel room.

\--

Viktor calls Yuuri, because it’s late at night in Canada but a perfectly normal time in Japan. When Yuuri picks up, the first thing he asks is, “Is Yurio okay?”

“No,” Viktor says, and he doesn’t ask _how did you know_ because upon review of Yuri’s free skate it turns out to be pretty obvious something went wrong. Well, at least for them, who have spent an awful lot of time watching him develop it. “I don’t really know why? At first I thought he was upset about his place, but…” Yuri’s not really the sort, or at least not anymore, to get upset about placing second in the first big event of the season.

“Did you ask him about it?”

“He stormed off to his room and won’t answer my texts, so no. Sometimes I feel like he’s still a teenager.”

He can hear Yuuri’s breath on the other side of the line, and wishes terribly that he was here right now. “He’s still pretty young, Vitya,” Yuuri says, “It might not be related to skating at all.”

Viktor gives a mock gasp. “Not related to skating? How could such a thing be?” He turns serious again. “You’re probably right. I guess we’ll see if he feels better in the morning.”

“You’ll both be home soon, at least,” Yuuri says somewhat wistfully. “How are you doing?”

“Me? I’m fine. I miss you,” he offers.

“It’s been what, two days?” Yuuri says, and then, “I miss you too.”

“Are you feeling alright? Still tired?” Viktor won’t lie—Yuuri’s disposition the last month has brought an undercurrent of fear closer to the surface. What if something’s gone wrong?

“Yes, a bit, but I think it’s getting better. Don’t worry about me, Vitya.”

But Viktor can’t help worrying, can’t help thinking about Yuuri and the—well. He looked it up, and at this stage, the baby is barely the size of a pea. He can’t quite think of it like a person yet, not the little bundle of cells growing inside Yuuri, but at the same time he can feel the shadows of all the possibilities coalescing in the back of his mind. Ones with Yuuri’s dark hair or his dark, serious eyes, Viktor’s smile and future height, their combined grace and strength; boys and girls and not quite eithers, artists and athletes and engineers. A whole new somebody to love, to cradle and nurture and watch grow, going from infant to child to teenager to adult under their tutelage, and—

Oh.

“Yuuri,” he says carefully, “I think I need to go.”

“…Okay,” Yuuri says, surprised but fond. “I’ll see you in a couple days. I love you.”

“I love you,” Viktor repeats, and it’s as true as it ever has been, but then he’s dashing down the hall.

He knocks on Yuri’s door until he answers. “What do you _want?_ ” he snarls, opening the door about six inches.

Viktor leans his shoulder into the doorjamb. “Can I come in?”

Yuri looks like he’s about to slam the door shut in Viktor’s face (and on his shoulder), but instead he steps back and shrugs. “Fine.” He retreats to the bed and sprawls out, apparently absorbed in whatever’s on his phone within seconds. 

Viktor stands next to the door awkwardly, trying to figure out what to say, until Yuri rolls his eyes, sits up, and snaps, “Don’t just stand there.”

“I’m sorry, Yura,” he blurts out, “I know I haven’t been focused on you lately. I don’t—I don’t want you to feel like I’m neglecting you, or that because other things are going on in my life that you’re not important anymore.” He swallows. “Feel free to yell at me,” he ends lamely.

Viktor can’t decipher the look on Yuri’s face—it’s somewhere between disgust, concern, and confusion—though the tone of his voice is still combative. “It’s not like you’re my dad,” he says, “I don’t need, like, validation or something.” 

“I know,” Viktor says, “But you do need a coach who pays attention, and I haven’t been that. You’re very self-sufficient,” he follows up before Yuri can scoff, “You shouldn’t have to be so all the time, though.” 

“Whatever,” Yuri says, and flops back down on the bed, but something about the curve of his mouth is a little softer.

Viktor isn’t entirely sure whether this was, in fact, a good talk until the next day, when Yuri is suddenly communicative again. He’s careful to watch every second of the gala skate, and for the moment when Yuri turns and their eyes meet, he thinks he catches a glimpse of a smile.


	5. Pampering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Still on the prompts, though there's precious little of this one in here.

There’s a particular kind of strung-out feeling that comes along with international travel, especially when an early snowstorm hits Toronto and their flight to Tokyo takes off seven hours later than scheduled. They miss their connection to Fukuoka, of course. This takes a just-over-twenty-four hour trip and stretches it out to a grueling thirty-three; worse, they’ll arrive in the middle of the day and have to force themselves to stay awake. Yurio has a few weeks to train before the NHK Trophy, but Kenjirou is headed to the Cup of China the next weekend, which means Viktor will be back on a plane within a few days.

Yuuri picks them up at the train station with congratulations on his lips and a dusting of worry in his eyes. They engage in a light tug-of-war for Viktor’s luggage that Viktor eventually wins, though realistically dragging it the short distance to the car is hardly something to fight over anyway.

As they speed past the turnoff to Yurio’s apartment, he shifts in the backseat and snorts, “Hey! Did you forget I’m here, too?”

Yuuri turns to look back, foot still on the gas, and Viktor winces a little until he’s watching the road again. “You’re not coming for lunch? Kenjirou’s cooking it now.” He’ll be very disappointed if you don’t show up, Yuuri doesn’t say.

“W-well,” Yuri stutters, “You could have _said_ something about it."

“Ah, sorry! Slipped my mind, I suppose,” Yuuri hums, and Yuri settles back for a grumpy nap.

The smell of green onions and grilled fish greets them as they walk through the door, and Kenjirou bounds out of the kitchen with a sunny grin. He practically jumps onto Yurio in order to embrace him, which Yurio bears with only a slightly pinched expression. They’ve gotten used to each other in the few years since Yakov retired and Yurio moved to Japan, where ‘gotten used to each other’ means that Kenjirou has gotten better at modulating his unbridled enthusiasm when necessary and Yurio’s tolerance for said enthusiasm has marginally increased. (“At least he doesn’t try to pick me up,” he’d shrugged, not that Yurio is any longer of the size to be easily picked up).

Kenjirou bustles them all into seats with lunch set proudly before them. A connoisseur of cooking blogs (with a moderate following of his own), he tends to pay careful attention to presentation; the lightly browned exterior of the fish contrasts with a deep red beetroot salad and the rich green of the onions. He and Yurio have a slight off-ice rivalry surrounding food, and as Yurio demolishes the meal he has a glint in his eye that indicates he’s already thinking about the next thing he’ll make. (Yuuri and Viktor unashamedly benefit from their students’ culinary activities. Kenjirou is undoubtedly better at anything involving stovetops, and Yurio ovens: with their powers combined they could make their coaches very fat, if they had the time.)

Viktor and Yurio are fairly quiet throughout lunch, tight exhaustion sinking into warm sleepiness as they fill their stomachs. Kenjirou burbles along happily enough for all of them, though, with Yuuri’s occasional interjection. It isn’t long before lunch is over. With four sets of hands the table is soon cleared, the dishes are washed and dried, and Yuuri is ushering Kenjirou and Yurio out so he can drive them home.

This leaves Viktor alone in the silent apartment. He has things to do, no doubt: routines to watch, clothes to wash, things to unpack in anticipation of repacking them soon. He can’t quite muster up the focus to do any of those things, though, and ends up curled up on the couch watching the news. This, of course, means that he drifts off after about twenty minutes and wakes up covered in a blanket that wasn’t there before with Yuuri poking at his forehead.

“Mmmph,” he grunts, peering up through half-closed eyelids.

“I know you’ll be annoyed if I let you sleep all day,” Yuuri says, “Come on. Let’s go for a walk.”

“Phwtymsit?” he mumbles, reluctant to move.

“About three,” Yuuri responds, heartlessly dragging him off the couch.

Viktor is still in his musty travel clothes, and for a moment he entertains the thought of changing. It’s taken enough effort for him to stand, though, and Yuuri is already pushing his coat into his hands.

They wind up strolling along the beach, hands tucked in their own pockets but so close as to be constantly brushing against each other. It’s a chilly day, for early autumn, but the sky is blue and clear and the horizon is far away. Viktor can almost close his eyes while walking, secure in the presence of his husband by his side.

“Don’t fall asleep here,” Yuuri warns, a hint of a smile in his voice. 

“I’m not,” Viktor says, blinking them open again. “I’m just enjoying myself.”

“Well, good.” Yuuri sounds pensive, and after a minute or so of quiet, says, “I’ve been thinking.” 

“Hmm?”

“You know I do the accounting for the onsen, most of the time.” Viktor nods, with a brief swell of pride. His Yuuri is so smart and capable. It’s not like Viktor _can_ _’_ _t_ deal with finances, but it seems to come so naturally to Yuuri. “Um, well, a couple of other people—smaller businesses—have mentioned they need help, and, um.” Yuuri shrugs. “I thought it might be nice to do that, now that I’m retired. But,” and here he hesitates, before hurrying on, “it means I might not be able to help with the coaching so much, anymore. Especially when,” and here he shyly pats his tummy, “the baby comes.”

“Oh,” Viktor says, but it’s not like he’d expected Yuuri to work with him forever. Until I figure out what to do next, he’d said after winning his last Worlds, not so long ago. It had been an easy transition. He’d already practically been coaching Kenjirou even while competing, for all that Viktor was officially the coach; he’d merely stepped further into the role. Now, it seems, he’s ready to step out of it.

He can tell Yuuri is about to take his surprise for something worse, and quickly says, “Of course! I’m glad,” and this much is true, “and I’m proud of you.” Kenjirou will be disappointed, he thinks with an internal sigh, probably Yuri, too.

When they get back home, Yuuri draws him a bath, despite his protests—“Hush, Vitya, you’ve had a long day, let me take care of you,” he insists. “You do it enough for me.”

Viktor likes taking care of Yuuri. He’s liked taking care of Yuuri since that very first night, when he’d blushingly coaxed the listing, slurring man back into his pants. He suffers through the lovely, warm, scented bath, the heated towel that Yuuri dries him with, the skincare routine that he normally does himself. He nearly falls asleep again in the tub, and really does doze off as Yuuri rubs lotion into his hands.

Yuuri maneuvers him into bed, and tucks one finger under the fringe of Viktor’s hair, lifting it in order to kiss his forehead. “Get some rest, Vitya,” he says, then draws a teasing hand down Viktor’s bare chest, “I’ll welcome you home properly tomorrow.”


End file.
